I'll tell you about my past

I open up the photo album and flip through the pages.There is a boy next to me and he smiles at the photos I place in his lap.
Memories come floating back, I can smell the coconut oil and pandanas leaves, feel the bright sunlight and scratchy nylon material.
I delight in the mini me in the images, who seems so remote but is a hidden part of me I'll never forget.
These photo albums I'm excited to share - I laugh at the girl I was and remember the culture I grew up in.

He insists on other albums too, the ones I don't want to show, the awkward teenage years with pimples and frizzy hair and hating myself. I'm surprised at how happy I look in the images. How normal I look. The girl there doesn't look like the person I remember. The person I felt everyone was telling me I was.
These were pictures I had carefully selected, photos full of people I barely remember, trying to paint a picture in scrapbooks of the life I wanted.

I wish I could go back in time and talk with the girl who made these scrapbooks. I want to tell her about me now, who is happy, really. Tell her she'll make it through the next 10 years and get out the other side. That things aren't as horrible as her mind tells her they are. I want her to see me now, and I hope she's not disappointed.

These photos, are more than just images to you. By showing them I'm letting down my guard. I'm exposing myself and letting you in. This is my past and I need to accept it before a future can begin.

Vanuatu Night

Every term one of the girls in our Bible study 'hosts a country'. Instead of a normal Bible study we go to someone's house and they cook traditional food, we learn about the country and then pray for the country.

Of course, when asked if I would like to do one I jumped at the chance to share my heart country with my Bible study .

I went to the fruit and vegetable markets near my place, and was so excited to find banana leaves! Closest thing I would be able to find for laplap leaves. I knew banana leaves would burn a bit more than laplap leaves, but I was hopeful that it would give a bit more authentic flavour to the food. It took forever to find yam - lots and lots of taro, but I really wanted to find yam. Yam laplap is sooo much nicer than taro laplap. Almost did a happy dance when I found the one little stall that had yam.

I made coconut cream fish, 'soup and rice', yam laplap and banana laplap. ('soup' in this case is a beef stew like dish cooked with lots of beef stock, oil, some 'island cabbage' and 2 minute noodles added)

My biggest triumph was that I think I finally cracked making laplap in an oven rather than between hot stones.I blended raw yam until smooth (I recently purchased a crazy powerful blender) and preheated oven to 200 Celsius. Put thick oven dishes in oven to warm up. Lined one dish with Banana leaves and grease proof paper. Poured in yam mixture (I would normally add coconut cream on top but one of the girls is allergic to coconut). Covered with more paper and banana leaves. Added another dish on top to put pressure and also a solid heat above. Lowered temp to 180 and left for 2 1/2 hours. I think could have gone for longer (another hour?) or higher temperature but was still good, just not quite 'set' enough. We then put warm coconut cream on top to serve.

We sat on a mat in the lounge room, clapped after grace, listened to string band music and prayed for Gods work in Vanuatu.

King of the Cannibals

Growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu I knew of John G. Paton. He was one of the pioneer missionaries to Vanuatu (then known as the New Hebrides's). But that was about all I knew about him so I was interested to read King of The Cannibals by Jim Cremarty and find out a bit more about what he did.

I was interested to learn he grew up in Dumfries in Scotland which is where my Dads Grandparents lived before they migrated to Australia. It's kind of cool to think that our ancestors might have known about John Paton or heard about the work he was doing in New Hebrides.

The thing that struck me the most was that the New Hebrides described in this book is so different to the Vanuatu I knew. Cannibalism and murder seem normal and the fighting between villages saddens me. There was also alot of guns from trading with merchant ships, which seems so foreign to me. Reading this book makes me understand what people were talking about when they would tell us the missionaries helped turn Vanuatu around.

Paton began to learn the local language to hep translate the Bible into the local language and he worked hard to make conditions better for women and children - though I recognised the way that many of the Ni-Vanuatu acted as cultural ways of relating to one another which were still prevalent when we lived there. That being said, I didn't exactly agree with everything that Paton and his other missionaries did (At one point while complaining to his friends about the Ni-Vanuatu lying constantly Paton then decided to 'trick' them by claiming he had links with the Queen and asking a merchant ship to pretend to be a war ship to frighten the villages into returning some things they had stolen). As humans even missionaries make mistakes. I tried very hard not to judge Paton as I'm sure that some people looked at some of the things my family and our contemporaries did and thought it was inappropriate.

However I was frustrated  that the author seemed to take the missionaries side every time, rather than explaining that there were two different  cultures within the story that had different ideas/values. He seemed to (at times) take the position that because the Ni-Vanuatu did not act the way people from a western culture would act then they were automatically wrong or stupid. I feel that part of the job of writing a historical story would be to understand where all people in the story were coming from, not to excuse their behaviour but describe the story accurately.

Once you get past these parts, it is an inspiring story. The missionaries face a much harsher environment than I could ever imagine. Paton's wife and baby son die not long after they arrive in Vanuatu, and missionaries on a nearby Island were murdered while Paton was on his Island. These people took a step of great faith to tell the people of the New Hebrides about God, never knowing of they would ever see their family and home again.

After effects

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)

The effects of the cyclones are felt for a long time after they pass by. As I mentioned we were never in Vanuatu when a cyclone went directly over us. But we would listen to the warnings to secure everything down. Cyclones season was during the end of year break, so often ones would hit when the college was empty, with just a few staff around. Dad would go through the college making sure everything that could fly around was inside or secured down.

The rain would fall like a sheet non-stop for a day or so and we would stand at the window to watch the wind blow anything not inside away. Large trees would be snapped in two, flexible trees would be pushed horizontal, and the dark clouds covered the sun so you needed hurricane lamps to see.

We would stay inside and play board games and read stories as we waited out the cyclone – so very thankful for a cyclone proof house that didn’t leak and enough food and supplies to keep us going until the storm passed. In villages people would huddle together in the strongest building – often the school or church.

Islands that had cyclones pass over them completely would have the worst effects. A cyclone would strip every leaf, fruit and flower from the trees. For people who rely on the vegetation as a main source of food this was devastating. I remember after one cyclone passed over part of Vanuatu a collection being taken up at Talua to send to the Islands with basically no food until plants would start to grow again. Entire villages would need to be rebuilt – bamboo and thatch houses are easily tossed around by the strong winds.

I wondered what happened before radio and communication. Did people know a storm was coming? Did they stay in their homes or try to shelter in caves if there were any? What did they do when the whole island barely had enough food?

(photo credit)

Cyclone Warning

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here) (I'm not going to mention how long it's been since I posted one of these, cos that's just embarrassing)

Thankfully we never really had a very bad cyclone when we were in Vanuatu. Several went past but never went over the top of the island of Santo. As I’ve watched the cyclone Yasi warnings over QLD, I remember how we use to keep tabs on the cyclones in Vanuatu without internet or TV.

Everyone had a special map of Vanuatu that was put out by the Vanuatu meteorology service. The map had an outline of the entire island nation set out on a numbered grid. When a cyclone developed near Vanuatu the radio would put out a warning and let us know the coordinates of the cyclone and the direction it was heading.
Dad would listen out for the co-ordinates and mark them on the map. As the cyclone became more intense the warnings would become more frequent and each time Dad would the mark the new co-ordinates on the map and we would watch the path of the cyclone. It was never straigth, the path. It would curve and twist. It would get stronger and then die off. Cyclones have a mind of their own, so we had to keep an eye on them and be prepared.

Friday Night Activities - Pastrol Care

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)

All the students and their families were divided into pastoral care groups depending on which Island they are from. There was the Santo Pastrol Care group, the Ambrym Pastrol Care group, the Southern Islands Pastrol Care group . . .

Every Friday the college had Friday night activities, and maybe two Fridays a term we had pastoral care night. Each group gathered for dinner in the house of the staff member assigned to care for the group.

All the students would bring something to eat. I liked it because it was one of the times we had local food in our home. Someone generally made lap lap with lots of yummy coconut cream. Once or twice a student had caught crabs and we got to eat it fresh crab. One of the Mama’s would sit and show me how to crack the claw with the back of a spoon so you can pick out the meat.

The way we would sit to eat was so instinctive to me. The men sat in the chairs around the living room. The women and children sit on mats on the floor along the side of the room.

The women would normally clean up while the men talked and the kids played, though sometimes Dad would upset the order by volunteering that the men to do the dishes.

After dinner we would do some kind of light hearted activity, like play games, or sing songs.
Once Dad showed a video of Pele and everyone was amazed by the soccer skills (soccer is something of a national sport).

Another time, when we were having a farewell, we ate outside and the students brought a string band. Josh stood on the tea chest and stomped to the music, singing out loud.

We danced a traditional dance the students had taught us; at night, with the hum of the generator in the background, the sound of other celebrations being had around the college, the sting of mosquitoes in the air, and smiling faces all around.

Homecoming

Dad came home wednesday night. We spent hours looking through photos and hearing all his adventures.

It was lovely to catch up on people we knew, and see who had had kids, who had gotten married, who was where, what they were up to.

Of course it made me want to go back. I looked at the photos and could hear the sound of chickens running around, remember the combined sound of everyone singing, feel the smoke from a fire smart in my eyes, smell the vegitation after it rains.

I want to go back, but I really want to back with Dad. Becasue he loves this place as much as I do, and so many of my memories are along side him. When I went back a few years ago I felt the whole time that something was missing, and I knew it was having him next to me.

Villages

While this isn't strictly a Growing Up Island post, if you're new here and a little confused things might make more sense if you go here for an overview of growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu.

In one week Dad is heading over to Vanuatu for about 3 weeks. He is researching the story of one of the students who came to Talua when we were there so that he can write a book about it. The student has one of the most amazing conversion stories, having come from one of the cargo cults on Tanna (the John Frum movement), training at Talua and then going back to his village where amazing things happen. I can’t wait to hear from Dad all that he hears when he is over there. And I’m sure the book will be fantastic! (I may be a little biased).

I’d love to be going over with him, though it’s not really appropriate (and there is a little thing called uni I need to be concentrating on). Though I don’t really envy him the 10 days living in a village.

When we explain that we grew up in Vanuatu most people assume that we lived in a village. They imagine grass huts, beautiful sandy beaches and coconut trees. While there were a lot of coconut trees, and the beaches were beautiful (though full of black volcanic sand, rather than the white sand you see in some parts of the country) we never lived in a hut. Living at the college was different to living in a village.

We had windows, and concrete walls. There were fly screens on all windows and doors so we didn’t have to sleep under mosquito nets. We had a kitchen inside, with an oven and a gas powered fridge. And we had a bathroom inside with a shower (as well as a bucket shower dad rigged up so we could boil water and have warm showers) and a flushing toilet.

If we had lived in a village things would have been different. The kitchen would be a standalone structure, with a fire to cook on. The house would have had bamboo walls, with a thatched roof and holes for door and windows. You would bathe in the nearest river, or have bucket showers within a small thatched room that had a tap. And there would have been a communal pit toilet.

We didn’t go to villages often. Dad may have gone more, but when the kids and wives went it was normally as part of mission Sunday, where groups from Talua would go out to villages and lead the service.

I hate to admit it now, but I really hated going to villages. I was shy and hated people staring. I learnt early on to always have my hair in braids so that it wasn’t pulled. I would often be surrounded by a sea of women and girls who would sit and stroke my skin. For someone who likes to blend in and hide away, it’s just not possible being the only white girl with long red hair for miles around. As such I didn’t initiate play; I didn’t run around with the local children. I sat with my parents and students and stared back at the other kids.

But when I went back on the mission trip, something had changed. We went over to Araki, a small island just off Santo (where Talua is) and spent the day in a village there. I was ashamed of the way the other people in the team kept diving for the disinfectant gel, and the way the boys and girls sat together on the same mat.

So I moved off and sat with some of the village girls who were watching us. I pulled out enough of my rusty Bislama to have conversations. We chatted and laughed and danced to the string band and I realised that girls are pretty much the same the world over. I felt more at home in a village that day than I ever had before.
That’s not to say that it wasn’t without awkward moments (there were only enough plates in the village for the mission people to eat, so everyone in the village sat around and watched us eat). But I did survive a trip to the ‘smol house’. And I felt genuinely sad at the end of the day to be going back to Talua.

But I can understand Dad’s nervousness about spending so many nights in a village by himself. I’ll be praying for him each day. And being so, so grateful for our flushing toilet.

Decorations

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For a quick overview and links to previous posts you can go here)


I haven’t written a growing up Island post for a while (like several months). I was reminded of something today while at church for Good Friday service.

If it’s one thing people in Vanuatu know how to do, it’s decorate. The best bit is that decorations are taken from the bush around the collage. It’s free, and it looks great :).

On the Thursday before Good Friday many of the students go looking for things to decorate the hall that was used for all of our services.

On Good Friday when we went onto the hall for the service the entire hall is covered with dead leaves. Long brown coconut leaves frame the door ways, large brown banana leaves are placed along the windows, shredded and haggard looking. Curled pandanas leaves encase the pulpit. Everything is dead and brown and sombre.

And then on Easter Sunday we come into church and the decorations have changed completely. Along the doorways are still coconut fronds, but they are glossy and green with bright coloured hibiscus threaded onto them. Leaves and flowers are everywhere, along the windows, around the pulpit, lining the walk way. At the front around the table has been constructed a cave with the stone rolled away. Everything is bright and green and colourful.



You walk in and are reminded that death isn’t the end, after three days there was life.

Our First Christmas

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)






Seeing as how it's less than 2 weeks til Christmas, I thought I'd do a Growing up Island post on Christmas.


Christmas time at Talua was always a little weird. All the students go home, and most of the staff too. For about a week the truck would be piled high several times a day with people and bags on the way into town to catch boats or planes to their respective islands and villages. There is much crying and shaking of hands and waving goodbye.

Then you wake up and the place is eerily quiet. There may be 3 staff families left to keep the collage in order. That year we were the only little kids left so Josh and I play together and the whole collage is our playground.


With less people wanting to go into town when Mum and Dad go in to do the weekly shop we are allowed to come too. Our first Christmas in Vanuatu we go into the bank and they have a TV showing a video of Carols in the Domain. I remember wondering why Mum was crying over a show with singing and fireworks and Humphrey B Bear. I obviously did not know what homesickness was.


We then went to the local grocery store and were greeted by a large Ni-Vanuatu man dressed in a red suit, dripping sweat. Yep, Santa had made it all the way to Santo. He was delighted to see some western kids who would actually know who Santa was. Unfortunately for him our parents were in the ignoring Santa camp (much easier to do when on a tropical island than in a western city, by the way) and to top it off Joshua was terrified of any large men with fake beards and big red suits.

It must have looked funny; a Ni-Vanuatu Santa chasing two white kids around the store. Once we realised that he just wanted to give us lollies we stopped and accepted them from behind Mum's skirt (poor guy!).

Each trip to the post office produced parcels from friends and family back in Australia, and they were secreted to the top of Mum and Dads wardrobe the minute we came home.



Mum and Dad tried to give us a Christmas we were use to. We had a little tree and the parcels held presents which we opened Christmas morning. Being the first Christmas of our missionary life we were sent more that year than any other. After the first year people get use to you being away and only those really close to you send something.



On actual Christmas day we had planned to go to a village for church because there wasn't enough people to have a service at Talua. But a storm was near and the rain was coming down so heavily you couldn't see out the window. The principal sent over his son to say we wouldn't try to drive in this weather so we had Christmas just the four of us; in our little house on a tropical Island.

Christmas Surprise

One of my favourite things about this time of year is the music that you hear all around.

At work we got some new Christmas CD's which is great because I was a little sick of the CD we have had for the last 3 Christmases. The new CD looked good - more 'O Holy Night' than 'Santa Claus is coming to town'.

I put it on when I opened that shop and started to do the organising, filling and cleaning that I like to get done before it gets busy. I forgot about the music, just humming along in my own little world - until I suddenly realised I was singing Bislama!

There are a few hymns that I obviously heard so often (or learnt while in) Vanuatu that I find it really hard to sing them in English - the Bislama words come out of my mouth without realising it. One of them is 'How Great Thou Art'. In fact I am so use to singing it in Bislama that I couldn't remember the English title tonight and had to sing it to Joshua and he recognised the tune.

I decided to investigate the CD a bit more and discovered that among all the other Christmas Carols and songs were a couple of old Hymns like 'The Lord is my Shepard' and 'What a friend we have in Jesus' .

It was a lovely uplift to my day to be at work in a secular store and having such great songs coming on as the CD went around!

And it made me sublimely happy to be singing "Be mi mi sing, mi prasem nam blong yu, we yu yu God, yu savem mi' (to those who can actually read Bislama excuse my spelling - I have enough trouble with English!) - though not too loudly so not to scare the customers away.

.

(photo credit)

Feeling hot, hot, hot

The heat the last few days has been incredible. Possibly made worse by driving around in a dark coloured car with no air conditioning.

Whenever I start complaining about the heat I like to remind myself that I grew up in the tropics, where there were months of heat, not just a few days. After a few minutes of self righteousness I then begin complaining about it again.

I tried to remember what the heat felt like in Vanuatu growing up and maybe write a 'Growing up Island' post about it. But honestly I can't remember much - or not enough to write a coherent post about. Maybe the brain squashes that sort of thing so you forget it, over wise you would never want to go back again. Or maybe because I was a kid it didn't effect me as much?

I remember the sun was fierce - a little red head girl with white white skin learns early on to stay inside during the main hours of sunlight. The sun feels closer to you than it does in Sydney. (Which it is, right? Because we're closer to the equator? . . . My high school geography teacher would be hitting his head against a wall knowing I was even asking that question.)

I remember there were days when I would lie on the floor (it was lino on top of concrete) under my bed during the middle of the day trying to cool down.

And being covered with sweat was a normal occurrence.

So I guess it did effect me after all. Maybe I just tend to dwell in the moment. Which is now, where it's so hot that I can't sleep. And I'm day dreaming about lying on a hard, cool lino floor.

(photo credit)

Earthquake

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can click here)



Reading Rachael's posts about earthquakes and tsunami warnings reminded me about the earth quakes we experienced.


Tsunamis weren't in the worlds consciousness the way they are now, it was not something we ever really worried about (through we knew they did happen - friends of our had witnessed a 'big wave' on one of the littler islands after an earth quake). It was the earthquake that we felt and concerned us.


Our first earthquake happened within a few weeks of our arrival at Talua. Joshua and I were doing something at the kitchen table and it struck - we didn't know what had hit us. We sat screaming in the kitchen clinging to each other. Emma our house girl walked in after it had finished and laughed at us. I remember being rather indignant, how did we know that the house wasn't going to fall down around our ears?


Through the years we got use to them. They weren't very common, but they weren't a surprise either.

You can hear an earthquake before it comes. It's a low rumble, almost like a large semi trailer trying to get up a hill. When we moved back to Australia our house was near a busy road. There were times when I would hear the sound of the trucks and my body would involuntarily brace itself.

Within a few seconds of hearing the sound the earth would move side to side, a rythmic rolling sensation. When you tried to walk your feet tripped over themselves, but if you held onto a wall or furniture and braced yourself you were ok. Ornaments would tip over, and pictures might fall from the wall.

We were lucky we never experienced a really ferocious earthquake. Most of them were small and over within a few seconds.
In Vanuatu it's very rare to hear of major damage from an earth quake. The traditional houses of bamboo and wood has enough of a give in them to be okay. Most other buildings are only one story high and have steel running up within the walls to protect it in earth quakes. I use to worry about a tree falling on our house, but I'm not sure if that's even possible?
While we were there the worst thing we heard of was a concrete water tank which watered a village on a nearby Island split in two, and was useless. A new water tank had to be made and water carted over on canoes for a few weeks.

The water in the water tank near our house would still move within it even after the earthquake had finished. It would slosh out one side, then the other. Slowly less water came out as the water level dropped and the momentum lessened.


Earthquakes are generally accompanied by earth tremors. You might get a small tremor, which was followed by the main earth quake, then in the following hours a few more smaller ones as the earth settled itself into it's new position.

String Band

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)




I love the sound of a String Band. It is made up of a tea chest base (a large wooden box with a rope threaded through a hole in the top and kept taut by a stick standing up straight), several ukuleles and sometimes bamboo pipes.

String bands appear at all major events, but often just appear when the guys want to make some music. Every song starts the same, with the same melody. Duh, dah, duh-duh-duh-dah-duh. The sound of a string band is distinctive and pulses through you. I can't hear the sound without beginning to sway to the beat.

My most distinctive memory of a string band is from an end of year farewell for our pastoral care group. We are outside our house in the semi dark. In the background I can hear the sounds of other pastoral care farewells around the collage. I am sitting with the women on a woven mat under a tree. The men are around the string band.

Joshua is so little he can stand on the tea chest bass and sings with the rest of the band. He has the best accent of all of us. Little white boy stands out in a sea of black as the lamps try unsuccessfully to light up the night. He is half in the tree, half on the tea chest and shakes the branch to the beat of the song. It’s one of the ones they sing often at the college. ‘B-I-B-L-E hemi wan holi buk blong God’.

(B -i -b-l-e, is a Holy Book from God)





This picture is from the Island of Araki, by one of the members of the mission team I was on a few years ago, (Sorry I'm not sure who - if you want to claim it let me know! - pretty sure it was one of the guys cos the girls were sitting in another area). See how all the guys playing sit in a circle and faces each other?

And just to embarrass me here is a photo of me dancing with the village girls to the string band.

Wailing

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)

Our house was close to the Single Boys quarters. If something particularly loud was going on we could hear it in our place.

Ever now and then (not very often, but often enough that we knew what it was) we would wake up to hear a loud wail. It was a high, loud, mournful sound which was then joined by other voices.

We knew then that someone had died. A message had traveled from one of the islands that a relative of one of the students had died and now they were mourning their loss, and other people were sharing in their pain.

Being a kid I never really paid much attention to things like that. Death was not a part of my world. I have only one vivid memory of being part of a mourning.

Dad had received a phone call, and come back upset. Mum came and told us that His grandmother had died in Australia. Joshua and I were not sure what to do. It was very rare to see Dad so upset. Great Grandma was a vague shadow in our memory, we were use to the people in our everyday sphere, or the relatives that we were in direct contact through letters and parcels.

The news soon spread around the campus and the next afternoon everyone from the college came to our house to mourn with us. Our house was full, with people sitting on the floor though out the main room.

First we sat and most people cried. Then someone started to sing and we all sang some choruses. Then Pastor Kalsikal lead us in prayer. Afterwards Dad, Mum, Joshua and I lined up so that everyone could shake our hands and tell us personally how sorry they were.

Looking back as an adult I appreciate how the community banded together. Everyone came to support the people who were grieving, and showed that when one person in a community was hurt, everyone hurt. There was no shying away from the pain, they acknowledged it straight up.

I don't know if this continued, or if it was only for the day, so I'm not sure how people reacted in a few days afterwards; if they mentioned it or ignored it as I feel happens here. Like I said, I was only a kid and death had not yet made an impact on my life.

How to Make Laplap

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)

Laplap is the stable traditional food in Vanuatu. It’s an acquired taste, having the consistency of heavy stodgy pudding. Most people when they first have it are not a fan, but I can’t remember a time when I didn’t like it. I looked forward to feasts and meals with Ni-Vanuatu families because it meant we would be able to eat it. Laplap was not something that we ever ate in our house – mainly because Mum and Joshua did not eat it, but also because we lacked an appropriate place to prepare it.

This laplap has been prepared for a feast so has meat on it.

Lap lap is made from a variety of root vegetables. My favourite was from purple yam, but you can also make it from other types of yams, taro and manioc. You can also make it from cooking bananas.

First you need to light a fire in a small hallow in the ground. When it’s died down a bit and has lots of warm coals in it you fill the fire with smooth round stones. These stones need to heat up, so you can leave it there while you prepare the laplap.

Next you get the vegetable, you need a few large yam. Peel it and cut it into chunks. Grate the yam using a piece of metal which has had holes nailed into it. This creates a large surface of small sharp spikes which grates the yam to a thick pulp.

Then you grate some coconuts. You need to use older coconuts which have a thick layer of coconut flesh on them. Husk the coconut, use a bush knife to tap the shell in half and then grate the coconut on a specially designed grater which is curved to fit inside the coconut shell.

Now lay out a layer of laplap leaves. Laplap leaves look like Banana leaves, but they aren’t (Don’t ask me how, I think they are a bit thicker). You need to layer it in different directions so that the yam pulp won’t leak out. Now spread the yam pulp out into a circle, about 5 cm thick.

Mama Annette is helping me to spread out the laplap - Joshua is sitting

on the coconut grater, grating coconut.

You can wrap it up like this, but I like to cover the laplap with a green leaf vegetable which is called Chines cabbage, it’s kind of like spinach. You then cover the lot with coconut milk. To get the milk you scoop up a mound of the coconut flesh in you hand, or some coconut husk and squeeze. Out pours a rich white liquid. You keep scooping up more mounds of coconut flesh and keep squeezing it to get all the yummy milk out you can. (You can also collect coconut milk and simmer it down to create coconut cream.)

I am squeezing out the coconut milk.

Now wrap up the laplap and tie it up with ropes made from the stems of the laplap leaves. By now the fire has died down and you can take out all the stones and put them to one side (they are extremely hot, so use large tongs made from splitting a wooden stick). Scoop out the ash, and put a layer of hot stones in the bottom of the hollow. With a friend you can carry the laplap and lay it on top of the stones. Now cover the laplap parcel with more stones. Cover the stones with heshin sack and leaves to keep the heat in.

Leave it for a few hours. Take all the stones off and open it up. Top with some more coconut cream and cut into chunks to eat – yum!

This is the house that we built

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)



The Scott Kids (the other missionary family at Talua when we arrived) and Joshua and I soon developed a close bond.

When we moved up to our new house we lived less that 10m away from each other so we were often running into each others homes. This was also a newer area of the college, furthest away from the married students so we were further from the other kids. During the day most of the kids our age were down at the local school, so during our ‘lunch break’ (while the adults had a siesta) all of us kids would go about on our own adventures.

We went through a phase of building tree houses. There were several trees around our homes which were perfect for building tree houses in. Mango trees are great; they have lots of good solid branches, which can support a bunch of kids.

Our best tree house was in the mandarin tree right out the front of the Scott’s house. We lugged up planks of wood, hammers and nails. Despite our great plans of having walls, a roof and individual rooms, it was never much more than a couple of planks at various angles across the strongest branches. And we had many arguments about who was actually allowed up it a various times.


But we loved it. (Here we are in the tree house)

Our favourite game to play was ‘hurricane’. We pretended we were a family and we lived in the tree house. Over the radio a cyclone warning would sound and we had to rush to prepare our house. Everything was gathered up onto the tree house, to prevent it flying around the yard. We also had to stock up food to survive the storm.

Then we all clung together while the rain poured down, the wind roared around us and our house shook. When everything was finished we went down to survey the damage. Of course someone in our family was often ‘fatally’ wounded and would need intensive treatment that involved dragging along the ground and much weeping.

Vanuatu Bits and Pieces

Joshua has started to work for a huge international furniture store. All of the employees have a name tag with their name on it and flags underneath. It took me a while to work out that the flags represented the languages which the employee speaks. For example, everyone has an Australian flag because they all speak English. If you speak Spanish it would have an Spanish flag; Cantonese, there would be a Chinese flag.


As soon as I found this out I told Josh he had to put down he spoke Bislama - and he did! So now he has a little tiny Vanuatu flag on his name take - it seems a little silly, but I think it's so cool.

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Being the good sports loving Aussies that we are (grin), Joshua and I have had the Olympics playing on and off in the background the last week. When we walk past the living room we flick it on to see if anything interesting is on.

Today I was in my room when Josh called out "Erin!" - I can generally interpret his one word calls pretty easily. This particular was actually saying "Come quick cos there is something really cool on and you'll really, really want to see it."

It turned out that a Ni-Vanuatu guy was in one of the 100 m heats. We both stood and cheered him all the way home (all 10 or so seconds). He came second last. But we didn't really care.

Arriving

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For a links to previous posts you can go here)

I don’t really remember much before going to Vanuatu. There are random memories of the first year of school, playing with my friends. I can’t even remember when it was that Mum and Dad decided to go – as far back as I remember, we were going to go to Vanuatu one day. (Though it was really only about a year before we left that they decided). We left for Vanuatu in September of 1992. I was 6 years old and Joshua was 4.

The last night in Australia was a haze of saying goodbye to family and being fascinated by an international airport.
In the plane we are mainly surrounded by tourists. As we take off a young guy suddenly yells out “We’re all going to die!” which I’m sure his friends found hilarious but Joshua asks in fright “What did he say?”

To which Mum quickly replied “He said ‘We’re going up into the sky!’”
I had been given a new toy, a Polly pocket, for the plane ride. On the plane I dropped it right when we were about to land and Dad had to go searching under the seats in front of us. (As a side note, if you are going to be giving a gift to a six year old girl as a distraction on a plane trip something that has pieces less than a centimetre long is probably not a good idea).

It was dark when we landed in Port Vila (Capital of Vanuatu), almost midnight. There was no fancy walkway into the airport, we walked down the stairs and across the tarmac. The humidity is still high even at this time of night. You can feel the wall of heat as you exit the air-conditioned plane; the warm air swirls up and engulfs you.

We walk to the terminal and head into immigration to show our pass ports and all that. We join a long line of tourist and watch a few people go through the gate for residents. Suddenly Dad remembers “Wait a second, we’re not tourist, we can go through that gate.” We change lines and speed through the checks, leaving all the tourists behind.

We are being greeted by Ps Kalsakau, the Principal of Talua, and Ian Scott, another missionary from Australia who lives at Talua with his family. Ps Kalsakau is the biggest, blackest man I have seen in my short life and I stare up at him with wide, frighten eyes. I am tired and overwhelmed by the number of dark skinned people I can see and they all seem to be watching us. Ps Kalsakau and Ian herd us onto a mini bus and we drive into town. There is not much light, but the moon seems much brighter than the moon I am use to – everything is lit up by this bright misty grey light. I see coconut trees, a few groups of people walking around and houses made out of corrugated iron. They take us to a house in town owned by the church and we thankfully go to sleep.

That was our first night in Vanuatu.

Here we begin the story of ‘Growing Up Island’.

This is an intro to a ongoing series chronicling my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. I can’t guarantee that the stories won’t be slightly embellished by a child's memory but I do hope that it will help me document my growing up years and give you a glimpse into my childhood. Also they probably won’t be in perfect chronological order so I’ve included a time line below the links to help you (and me) keep the years in order and also to introduce some of the important people in the stories. (Some names have been changed)


1992 – Our family moved to Talua in September. We live in the student triplex until we moved into our new house in December.
Ps Kalsakau is the principal of Talua. Our Pastoral care group is Ambrym. Our housegirl is a lady called Emma.
The Scott’s have already been at Talua for a few years. Ian and Jenni have 4 children; Fiona, Kathryn, Jeremy and Bronwyn. They went home on furlough at end of year. Marie (An older American missionary) is the English/Christian Education teacher.
Our first Christmas in the tropics.


1993 – Our first full year in Vanuatu. Joshua starts Kindergarten, I am in year 2 – Mum home schools both of us for the rest of our time in Vanuatu. Our Pastoral care group is Ambrym.
At the end of 1993 we return to Australia for 2 month’s holiday/furlough.


1994 – We returned to Talua at the beginning of February. Emma is finding the work a bit much and so her daughter, Miriam, is now our house girl.
The Scott’s are still at Talua, they leave in October to return to Australia for good. Norah comes at beginning of year to replace Marie as English teacher. The Patterson’s (Jon and Lyndell) arrive in the middle of the year to replace Marie as Christian Education teacher.
Our pastoral care group is Central Islands.
Our second Christmas in Vanuatu.


1995 – The Taylor’s (Darrel and Margaret) arrive in May (they had stayed in Australia to have their first child, Luke).
This is a bad malaria year; Dad has it 4 times, Mum 2 times & I have it once, many of the students and staff also have malaria. Norah returns home at end of the year for good.
Our pastoral care group is Central Islands.
Ps Kalsakau went to Fiji to do a Masters and Ps Masia is principal.
We return to Australia for furlough/holiday at the end of the year.


1996 – Dad returned to Talua at beginning of February. Mum, Joshua and I stay in Australia to do first term at a ‘real’ school in Australia then returned to Talua in April. The telephone is finally connected to Talua in first term. The Patterson’s have their first child, Ben. Taylor’s return to Australia for furlough and to have Nicole (their second child).
Ps Masia is still principal.
Joshua and I spend a term going once a week to Tata school.
Our Pastoral care group was Southern Islands.
Our third Christmas in Vanuatu.


1997 – Our last year in Vanuatu. Ps Kalsakau returns to Talua as principal at the beginning of the year.
We all attend Assembly at South West Bay on Malekula. Mum and I have malaria again. In the middle of the year Miriam discovers she is pregnant so Emma returns as our house girl. Miriam has a little girl just before we leave and names her Erin.
Our Pastoral care group is Southern Islands.
We return to Australia for good at the end of the year.


2005 – After 7 years back in Australia I have the opportunity to return to Talua as part of a work party/short mission trip to help build a new library for Talua. I get to visit old friends, see places I grew up and remember how precious this place is to me.




(Image for title from NickyFern)